Kill Fee, page 17
Once away from the sight of the reporters and their cameras, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his gleaming face. Damn them! The fourth estate would have a long wait before he ever handed them an inside story again. Maybe he was getting an overexposure problem; might be best to low-profile it for a while.
Damned faggots.
Murtaugh heard Ellie's key in the lock but couldn't summon the energy to get up and go open the door. "Aren't you early?" he greeted her.
"A little." She gave him a quick kiss and settled on the arm of his chair. "What did the lawyer say?"
"Not a whole lot—it's too early, he needs to do some work first. He did say if this were a regular trial, the charge would be thrown out of court. Not enough evidence, even the false kind."
"Well, that's a good sign, isn't it?"
"Not really. The rules are different in a police trial board hearing. Crooks have to be proved guilty by a court, but cops have to prove their innocence. Ansbacher's opinion counts a lot more in a trial board hearing, for one thing. And since the so-called witness is a police detective, his word will carry a lot of weight."
"What about this witness—Hanowitz, is that the name?"
"Ah yes, Sergeant Hanowitz. A grabby little weasel who doesn't mind climbing over dead bodies to get where he's going. I can't say I'm surprised."
"You think Ansbacher promised him something? Help in getting a promotion?"
"I'd make book on it. But there's no way to prove it. As long as Hanowitz sticks to his story that he overheard me setting up a bogus stakeout . . ." He trailed off, not wanting to complete the thought. As long as Hanowitz sticks to his story, I'm going to end up losing my pension. The phone rang. "Don't answer it."
"Why not?"
"Reporters. They've been calling ever since I got in. People love hearing a cop is dirty." After the thirteenth ring the caller gave up. "I'll get the number changed."
Ellie squeezed his arm in sympathy. "I've been thinking. Why don't you go stay with Des for a while?" Murtaugh's brother Desmond, living in Pittsburgh. "You haven't seen him for nearly a year, and it would do you good to get away from New York. For a little while."
"Run away?"
"Of course not—you know I don't mean that. Just give yourself some breathing space. Have you thought about it—getting away for a while?"
Murtaugh made a noncommittal noise.
"It might help you to get outside the situation here. Find a different perspective, get rid of the cobwebs. You'll think of things in Pittsburgh you can't think of here—you're too close. Call Des. Do it, Jim."
"Hm," he said. "What about you? Could you come?"
"I can't get away right now, but I can come at the end of the week. Go call Des."
"You'd come on . . . ?"
"Friday. Late afternoon or early evening."
Murtaugh didn't need any more urging. He called his brother and invited himself to Pittsburgh. Des said to come ahead.
"Why, that's Willoughby!" old Mr. Rasmussen exclaimed in obvious surprise. "Surely the police aren't looking for Willoughby?"
Eberhart felt a chill of pleasure run down his spine. "Are you sure, Mr. Rasmussen? Take a good look."
The old man held the police sketch of Pluto's face at arm's length and studied it carefully. "Yes, that's Willoughby—no mistake. I sponsored him myself. He hasn't done anything illegal, has he, Sergeant?"
"He called himself Willoughby here?" Here was the Pardee Club, with its pistol range in the sub-basement; Eberhart had at last hit pay dirt. "Would you spell that?"
Mr. Rasmussen spelled it for him. "Isn't that his real name?"
"We don't know his real name. This guy has a new alias every time you turn around." Eberhart printed Willoughby in his notebook, in careful block letters so that even Lieutenant Murtaugh could read it easily—and then remembered the Lieutenant wouldn't be reading it at all. "First name?"
"Henry. Henry Willoughby. Sergeant, you must be wrong. Willoughby is an English gentleman who wouldn't be associated with—what do you think he's associated with?"
"Murder. And we have proof. He's a professional killer, Mr. Rasmussen." The old man blanched, and Eberhart wished he hadn't spoken so bluntly. "You say you sponsored him here—you mean a membership in the Pardee Club? Then you must know him from somewhere else."
"Well, I first ran into him at Holland's. Then we met at Burney's a few times and had a couple of drinks together and—"
"Hold on—what are Holland's and Burney's?"
"They're antique gun dealers. As I said, Willoughby and I had a drink together a few times and then I invited him here—to the Pardee—for dinner. We were both interested in guns. . . . " Mr. Rasmussen trailed off as he realized why the other man had been so interested in guns. "No," he muttered to himself. "I don't believe it."
"So you brought him here to the Pardee," Eberhart prompted.
But old Mr. Rasmussen couldn't tell him much more. They'd talked guns and the old man had shown his guest the pistol range in the sub-basement. "Don't shoot any more myself," he said, holding up a trembling hand in demonstration. "First the eyes go, then . .. well." Mr. Rasmussen had introduced his new English friend to some of the other members and had eventually sponsored him for membership.
Eberhart took down the names of the other members who knew "Willoughby"—although Mr. Rasmussen had not wanted to name them. "You're wrong about Willoughby," he said stubbornly. "I didn't get where I am by being a bad judge of character, Sergeant. And I'm telling you Henry Willoughby is no murderer."
Eberhart thanked him for his help and didn't argue. Mr. Rasmussen was like those people who kept insisting Richard Nixon was just misunderstood; they couldn't bring themselves to admit they'd made that big a mistake in judgment. Eberhart took the elevator down to the sub-basement and talked to the counterman at the pistol range. The counterman was fairly new on the job and had never seen Pluto, but he had seen the police sketch before. He'd put a copy up on the bulletin board but somebody stole it.
Wonder who? Eberhart thought dryly. That meant their police sketch was no longer any good, he was willing to bet. Pluto had come in to do some shooting and had spotted his face on the bulletin board. Now he knew they knew what he looked like, so the first thing he'd do would be to change his appearance. Where are you, Pluto, and what do you look like now? The opposite of blond and mustachioed was clean-shaven and brunet. Or red—no, henna was too easy to spot. Black or brown hair. Possibly a full beard? But Pluto wouldn't have had time to grow one yet and putting on a false beard every morning was a pain; to look realistic, it had to be pasted on strand by strand. Clean-shaven, then, and brown or black hair.
Lots of goodies. Eberhart had the names of five members of the Pardee Club who'd known Pluto; surely one of them knew something that could be helpful. Also, he'd have another go at Mr. Rasmussen, after the old man had had a little time to recover from the shock. And there were those two antique firearms dealers to be checked.
Eberhart decided he needed help. Unfortunately, that meant a face-to-face with Ansbacher. Those little conferences with the Captain always left him feeling like a fool, no matter how well he'd done his work. In instant contrast, Eberhart heard in his mind Lieutenant Murtaugh's chronic but good-natured grumbling about Eberhart's handwriting; it was true you didn't appreciate what you had until you lost it.
Eberhart missed working with Murtaugh. But he'd go on being all willing cooperation and smiling sincerity as far as Ansbacher was concerned. Because the man could destroy you. And would, if he didn't like the way you combed your hair.
What the fuck kind of stinking system was it when a good man like Lieutenant Murtaugh could be falsely accused and kicked out and humiliated—and a high-ranking son of a bitch like Ansbacher just went on surviving and surviving and surviving?
Leon Walsh pressed the palms of his hands against his burning eyeballs. His neck ached, his shoulders ached, his back ached. But he felt that special kind of good that came only once a month. After all these years he still got a kick out of putting another issue to bed. The proofreading was done, the corrected dummy was on its way back to the printer's.
A knock at the door, shave and a haircut. "Entrez," Walsh sang out.
The door opened two feet and Andy Gill slipped in. Andy was the fiction editor, Fran Caffrey's replacement; a thin, pale young man, quiet and unobtrusive. "Do you have a minute, Mr. Walsh?''
That was one thing Walsh liked about young Andy Gill; he was respectful and well-mannered. Fran Caffrey would have just barged in and started talking. Walsh nodded, and Andy closed the door behind him.
"I called the printer," the young man said. "They have the dummy—it arrived all right."
"That wasn't necessary, Andy. They have to sign for it."
"I know, I just wanted to be sure. It's all locked up now, isn't it? Nothing can be changed?"
"You know it can't. A Martian invasion couldn't make that issue. What's this all about, Andy?"
"May I sit down?" he asked, sitting down. "It's about a story in that issue—the one written by your friend Vincent Yates. 'Whipping Boy'?"
In spite of his good feeling, Walsh tensed. "Whipping Boy" was the new title for the rewritten version of his old story "Talking of Michelangelo"—and Vincent Yates was his new pseudonym. "What about it?"
"It's a lovely story, Mr. Walsh. I'm glad we printed it."
Walsh relaxed. "So am I."
"Your friend Mr. Yates has a lot of talent. Will we be getting more of his stories, do you think?"
"Oh, I'm sure we will."
Andy Gill nodded. "Did I ever tell you I've read every single issue of Summit magazine? Right from the very first one, when you were still publishing in New Jersey. Did I ever tell you that?"
The tense feeling came creeping back, and Walsh knew this time it wasn't going to go away. He swallowed and spoke slowly. "No, I don't think you did."
"There's a story in the sixth issue that's awfully interesting. It's called 'Talking of Michelangelo'—remember that one?"
Walsh stared at him without answering.
"It's an incredible coincidence," Andy went on, "but 'Whipping Boy' had so many things about it that reminded me of 'Talking of Michelangelo' that I went back and read it again. The older story, I mean."
No. Not now. No.
The young fiction editor pulled a small spiral notebook from a hip pocket and opened it. " 'Whipping Boy' is set in Berlin while the action of 'Talking of Michelangelo' takes place in Paris, but they have the same themes and basically the same plot. And the characters of both stories have a great deal in common."
Walsh put his head back and closed his still-burning eyes as Andy Gill's featureless young voice droned on, comparing the two stories point by point. Walsh succumbed to a flood of self-pity; good God, couldn't he get away with anything? Probably the best line to take with young Gill was to pretend to be shocked, horrified, outraged by the plagiarism—and to swear loudly and convincingly that that was the last word by Vincent Yates Summit magazine would ever publish, by golly.
But Andy Gill wasn't finished. "Here's the part that's causing me trouble. 'Talking of Michelangelo' was written by J. J. Kellerman. You've published six of Kellerman's stories altogether, Mr. Walsh—I went through and counted them. 'The Man from Porlock' was the last one. But in your, ah, court hearing, and I surely am sorry about that, that you had to go through all that, I mean—but at your hearing they said you wrote 'The Man from Porlock.' Isn't that right? That's how that police lieutenant, ah, figured things out, wasn't it?"
Walsh kept his eyes closed, not wanting to look at that accusing young face.
"So if you wrote 'The Man from Porlock' then you're J. J. Kellerman. And since you're Kellerman, that means you also wrote 'Talking of Michelangelo'—isn't that true? Then if 'Whipping Boy' is just a new version of 'Talking of Michelangelo' you must also be Vincent Yates."
Walsh forced himself to open his eyes. "What are you talking about, Andy? You know Vincent Yates is a friend of mine." Something more was needed; he snorted as if disgusted. "Some friend!"
Andy shook his head. "I know you told me Vincent Yates was a friend . . . but it just doesn't make sense, Mr. Walsh. You're too good an editor not to recognize a plagiarized version of one of your own stories. There isn't any Vincent Yates, is there?"
Walsh looked at him wonderingly, not knowing what to say. "Well." He cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to worry, Mr. Walsh," Andy Gill hastened to assure him. "I haven't said a word to anybody. And I don't think you have to worry about the rest of the staff. None of them were with you in New Jersey, were they? And if they haven't gone back and read the old issues already, they're not likely to now, are they? You really don't have a thing to worry about. I promise you, I'm not going to say anything about it."
It was going to work out? "I don't know what to say," Walsh repeated.
Andy Gill smiled broadly, making himself look boyish. "You don't have to thank me, Mr. Walsh. I know you're an honorable man at heart. You'll take care of me."
The temperature dropped. "What?"
"I said I know you'll take care of me. Working with fiction is fun, and I appreciate your giving me the chance. But I really would rather work with the whole magazine, not just the fiction."
"Oh, is that all?" Walsh asked sarcastically, at last understanding he was being blackmailed. "Would publisher be good enough for you?"
"Nothing so grand as that," Andy said modestly. "An associate editorship would suit me fine."
Walsh gaped. "Associate . . . I don't have enough budget to take on another associate editor!"
The young man's face clouded. "I'm sorry to hear that. I hate to think of one of those older people being turned out to make room for me—but if you don't have the money, you don't have the money. That's the way it goes."
Walsh couldn't believe what he was hearing. Whatever happened to the quiet, unobtrusive, respectful young man he'd hired to take Fran Caffrey's place? Even Fran would never have pulled a stunt like this. "Uriah Heep," he said bitterly.
Andy Gill blinked his eyes, looked hurt. "I'm sorry you feel that way."
I'm sorry you feel that way—the same thing young Hartley Dunlop had said to him, that day at UltraMedia when Walsh had come within a gnat's eyelash of losing Summit. Pull the rug out from under a guy and then say, I'm sorry you feel that way, when he yells. The young, conscienceless punks. They took whatever they wanted, and anyone who got in the way had better look out. Walsh wondered if he was destined to spend the rest of his life being one-upped by men half his age.
"Go away," Walsh said softly. "I don't want to talk to you right now."
"Yes, sir, I understand," Associate Editor Andy Gill said courteously and left the office.
Walsh leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. Pluto, Pluto—where are you now?
Desmond Murtaugh padded down the hall in his pajamas and bare feet toward the ringing telephone. It was six o'clock in the morning and he wasn't fully awake. "What couldn't wait one more hour?" he answered the phone.
"Des? It's Ellie. Wake Jim up—it's important. Hurry, Des."
Des padded halfway back down the hall to the guest room. He woke his younger brother the same way he had awakened him when they were boys, by taking hold of his big toe and shaking his foot lightly. "Ellie's on the phone. She says it's important."
Lieutenant James Timothy Murtaugh woke up faster than his brother did; he was down at the end of the hall before Des made it back to his own bedroom. "Ellie? What's wrong?"
"Jim, something ghastly has happened. Captain Ansbacher has been shot. He's dead." The silence that followed was so long that Ellie said, "Jim?"
"I'm listening." O Captain, my Captain. "How did it happen?"
"I don't know, I just know he's been killed. A man from the Deputy Commissioner's office called, somebody named Turnbull. You know him?"
"I know him."
"He wants you to come in to see him. He means right away, Jim, today. As soon as you can get a plane back to New York." Another silence. "Jim?"
"I'm on my way," he said.
CHAPTER
14
Deputy Commissioner Turnbull was on edge. He tried to hide his nervousness under an abrupt speaking manner; not his usual style, and he didn't carry it off too well.
Murtaugh wasn't inclined to help him out; he had a small case of nerves of his own to worry about. He was being reinstated; that was all he really cared about. But the departmentally regulated process of absolving him had opened a new can of worms.
"You know the charges against you have been dropped," Turnbull said shortly, in a hurry to get this part over with. "There'll be no hearing. Insufficient evidence now."
"What about Hanowitz? There's still his claim he heard me talking to Pluto."
"Funny thing about Hanowitz," Turnbull said dryly. "The minute he learned Ansbacher was dead he started having memory lapses. Like maybe he's not really sure it was Pluto he heard you say on the phone. And like he's not sure if it was a stakeout or a steak dinner you were talking about. He's mentioned a couple of times that Ansbacher had been pressuring him about it. He says he was just trying to be helpful."
"Hm. What's going to happen to him?"
"Oh, he's not getting away with it, don't worry. False accusation—that's serious stuff. If he'd stuck to his story . . . well, he still might have made trouble. But Hanowitz sounds like one of those pricks who change sides so often it gets to be a habit. His 'patron' is no longer around to back him up, so he's not going to try to put the screws on you by himself. How did a turkey like that ever make detective—that's what I'd like to know." Turnbull paused. "Lieutenant, the Commissioner wanted me to tell you that he's glad you're back. He never believed you were guilty."
It was the sort of thing police commissioners probably made a practice of saying to lowly lieutenants in need of encouragement, but it still gave Murtaugh a lift. He smiled for the first time that day.
Turnbull barked an uncomfortable laugh. "Good thing your papers were impounded after all. Sanders in Internal Affairs—you sure gave him a hell of a turn. When he came across your notes on Ansbacher, I mean. Two files of 'em! After he'd had a chance to study them he came to us and said he thought they were investigating the wrong man."
